


The Yule Spirit.

by ohboromir



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, androg is a dick, beleg does not understand Men, beleg/turin if you wanna read it like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:52:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohboromir/pseuds/ohboromir
Summary: Elves don't celebrate Yule. Spending his first winter among the Gaurwaith, Beleg gets a bit of a culture shock.





	The Yule Spirit.

**Author's Note:**

> For Tolkien Secret Santa 2017!
> 
> I wanted to write something fitting with the season, but it is slightly angst-ridden in places. Whoops. Hope you like it!

“What are you wearing?”

 Elven laughter was rarely heard in the Halls of Amon Rûdh. Beleg had only been here a short time and he was yet to truly feel at peace among his former tormentors and that Valar-damned dwarf. But the sight of his dearest companion, decked out in bright green and red, with a crown of berries balanced on his head, was so ridiculous that it drew the elf out of his somber mood.

 “It’s a Yule crown. Haven’t you seen one before, elf?” Andróg voice came up from behind him, making the elf twitch and scowl.

 “Evidently, I have not. I was not speaking to you.”

 Túrin stepped between them before a fight could break out.

 “Elves don’t celebrate,” the young man explained, turning to Beleg with a rare grin. Túrin was a man of few words and fewer smiles, but something had obviously put him in a jolly mood. “Yule is a celebration of the winter season for many Men. You drink, you feast, you dance. Dancing, at least, you can understand.”

 Beleg frowned. Why celebrate winter? The trees and plants withered and died, the wildlife shrinking away to hide from the bitter chill. That was nothing to be happy about - game was scarce and firewood in high demand. It hardly seemed pleasant. _Men were so very strange._

 But Túrin, for the first time since he was a boy, seemed happy and so Beleg would try to understand.

 “You did not celebrate in Doriath.”

 It was the wrong thing to say; his companion’s face darkened, grey eyes dimming. “No. I did not. It is something one celebrates with family and friends - and while I had you, I was very much alone. I knew you would not understand the custom.”

  _You should have said something. I would have pretended, for you._

 “Ah. Well, I will celebrate with you know, if I am still welcome.”

 Túrin beamed, taking him by the arm and dragging the elf - willingly, else he’d never accept the indignity - towards the main hall. Gathered around the roaring hearth-fire, the outlaws seemed almost peaceful. Someone had hung more branches of red berries from the walls and the smell of hot food made the elf’s stomach growl.  Never in all his long years could he have imagined a Dwarf’s halls to be so full of joy and warmth - for once, none of the men were fighting; although beer was flowing, the only sound was laughter and chattering, not curses and brawling. Was this how Túrin’s folk celebrated the season of death? It seemed so impossible.

 “This is -”

 “Hush.” Túrin shoved a mug of beer into his hands and another berry crown onto his head. “Relax. You are always so tense, mellon nin. Let yourself go.”

 "Ha!” Beleg had to laugh, “I can’t believe _you_ said that to _me_.”

 Deep down, he knew he was right. But how could he relax? These were the men who had laughed in his face when he had begged them to stop, who had denied him food and water, who had made him scream and cry and stripped him of dignity. How could he sit among them and not be anxious?

  _For Túrin, he would do anything._

 So Beleg took his seat between Túrin and an empty space, his entire body as tense as his bowstring. One of the outlaws - a boy, in truth, perhaps no more than seventeen winters - leaned over and passed him a bowl of hot stew, an anxious smile on his spotty face. Beleg took the bowl hesitantly, but it warmed his hands and heart ever so slightly.

 “Here, Mister Elf. Your share.”

 “... Thank you.”

 For some time, he sat quietly, listening to the chatter without joining in. Slowly, as he ate, the tension melted from his body.  This wasn’t so bad. Perhaps he could understand the spirit of the season. The closeness it brought, the warmth of sharing food and drink by the fire. That was something that Elves should learn to understand, Beleg thought, and then perhaps they would not seem so cold and aloof.

 “Strange custom, isn’t it, Elf?”

 A gruff voice drew him from his musings and Beleg turned to scowl at the Dwarf. Yet he couldn’t quite manage it; only looking curious, one dark eyebrow arched.  “Do Dwarves not celebrate either?”

 “Not like this. Not for a long time.” Mîm answered; Beleg detected an undertone of grief in his voice and remembered his lost son - how many dwarvish lives had the Elves taken in the years past? He wanted to apologise, but the words stuck in his throat and he only grunted in response.

 Putting his bowl down, his appetite suddenly gone, the elf crossed his legs, listening to the singing around him. Not a tune familiar to him, but it was joyful, jaunty, bringing a smile to his face.

 Grey eyes searched the crowd for Túrin. Finding him among the Men he led, Beleg smiled; he seemed more at home than he ever had in Doriath. There was happiness in his eyes, as he joined in another rousing chorus. _So young. So much promise_. Maybe this was not a doomed endeavour; Túrin and his men would retake Dor-lómin and his birthright - maybe, just maybe, they would have many more Yules to come.


End file.
